THE ALL-PRO (6 page)

The stadium walk had ended with an elevator ride to a luxury box, where Quentin and the others sat in a large seat and looked down at the white field far below. Dark blue lines and numbers looked almost black under the domed stadium’s bright lights. As the teams battled, Quentin focused on the player he’d decided he just had to have — Sklorno wide receiver Cheboygan.

“Barnes,” Hokor said, “I’m still not sold on Cheboygan. She’s good, but she’d be our fourth receiver at best and she’s not that fast. What about Cofferville or Minas Gerais? Both of those receivers have timed their 30-yard dash in the upper tenth percentile of all Tier Three players.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’ve already got speed, Coach. Hawick and Milford are blazers. I want ball-control, I want receivers who can catch anything I throw at them,
and
who can live through the season.” The female Sklorno bodies had evolved for speed, speed and more speed. Muscular thighs rose back and up, narrow forelegs pointed forward and down to connect with long, flexible feet — these grasshopper-like limbs made the species the fastest sentients in the galaxy. The legs supported a narrow, vertical trunk of a body that bent back in a slight curve, ending in the Sklorno’s strange head. At the front of the small head, near the neck, two long raspers that could curl up hidden behind a chin plate or dangle down to the ground, revealing thousands of tiny rasper teeth. Above the chin plate, a dense crop of coarse, black hairs around four long eye stalks. The eye stalks moved separately, letting a Sklorno see everything around her. Below the chin plate, on the body, were the long, muscular tentacles that reached out like boneless snakes to snag footballs out of the air.

The physiology alone was strange enough to begin with even without the Sklorno’s coloration — which was no coloration at all. Clear skin showed fluttering, translucent muscles, transparent blood coursing through them, all wrapped around black bones that looked blurred and out of focus from the tissue surrounding them.

Cheboygan’s clear skin was mostly hidden, of course, by her light green and yellow Manglers uniform and helmet. She was bigger than most Sklorno receivers, her stats said she was stronger, and there were more factors that made Quentin want her on the Krakens’ roster.

“Coach, her speed isn’t top-shelf, but she’s still plenty damn fast,” Quentin said. “Did you check out her mass-to-speed score and her density rating?”

John looked up from his double serving of chili fries. The words
density rating
seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“Huh? Q, what kind of stat is that? You mean her strength?”

“Not her
strength
, John. Mass, her density. How, uh, tightly compacted she is.”

“You mean if she’s fat?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, not that. The more mass she has, the bigger hits she can take. Combine her mass with her speed, or her
velocity
, and you get her force. That means if I throw to her over the middle while she’s moving, she has more
force
than a linebacker like you.”

“Screw that,” John said. “I’m made of mega-force.
Super
mega force, even. I’ll knock her right the hell out.”

“Yes, John, of course you will. But not all linebackers are stone-bred monstrosities like you.”

“And cultured.” John pointed with a chili-covered fry for emphasis. “That part comes from Ma.”

Quentin nodded. “And cultured. Anyway, the more
force
the receiver has, I think the better suited she is to catching passes over the middle. Defenses don’t have to worry about Milford or Hawick running those routes because they don’t have enough mass to take those hits without getting hurt. Right now, I can only throw short over the middle to our tight ends or our running backs. I want more options. Force equals mass times acceleration, so I want lots of force.”

John popped the greasy fry into his mouth. He chewed with his mouth open and kept talking. “Mass? Acceleration? Sounds to me like you’ve been hanging out with that nerd Kimberlin again. He trying to make you all smart and stuff?”

“He’s tutoring me,” Quentin said. “So what?”

John rolled his eyes.
YOU CAN’T TEACH AN OLD DOG SPILLED MILK
scrolled across his forehead. “You’re a football player, Q. How about you worry about
football
? I mean, do you even have an agent yet?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, but I’m supposed to meet with Yitzhak’s agent when I get back to Ionath. Guy’s name is Danny Lundy.”

John’s right hand turned into an emphatic fist. “Lundy is my agent, Q! He’s the man. He’ll tear the tongue out of anyone who gets in your way.”

“Good to know.”

“Anyway, Q, you should just focus on football. You don’t need all this physics crap. Just trust your eyes. Stop trying to be something you’re not.”

Quentin looked back down to the field.
Something he was not?
What did that mean? Was he supposed to stay ignorant just because he played football? No, no way. Kimberlin had promised that knowledge would
add
to Quentin’s ability to lead the Krakens to a championship, not
distract
from it. Studying was hard work. Kimberlin demanded perfect scores, but at least some of the knowledge seemed promising. Physics, in particular. In the past six weeks of tutoring, Quentin had learned about things like mass, force, velocity and conservation of momentum. He knew the actual reason why little players bounced off of big players. He knew why tacklers needed a low center of gravity and why he was putting his receivers’ lives at risk if he threw too high — something called
torque
. He understood how air density impacted the flight of a pass.

The knowledge was amazing. Kimberlin also wanted to teach useless stuff like history, but some of the species biology might prove helpful. Quentin was willing to learn anything if that knowledge would give him the edge he needed to claim the GFL title. If John didn’t need such knowledge, that was John’s business, but Quentin refused to feel bad about expanding his brain.

Down on the field, the light green and yellow Manglers broke the huddle and lined up. The Archangels — white jerseys and turquoise helmets showing the dirt, blood and damage of a nearly complete game — dug in, trying to protect their slim 13-10 lead. Every player on that field knew that scouts from hundreds of upper tier teams were watching, and they played accordingly.

Hokor quickly activated a palm-up display on his pedipalp, then clicked through the interface until a slowly spinning display of Cheboygan appeared.

“Eight feet tall, three hundred sixty pounds,” Hokor said. “Unusually large for a Sklorno. She’s slow, though.”

“Slow for a Sklorno,” Quentin said. “That means she’s still faster than Starcher or Ju Tweedy. All that size, moving at high speed? Coach, that’s money.”

Hokor looked at the stats some more, then down to the field. “I am not sure, Barnes. Speed kills.”

The Manglers quarterback took the snap and dropped back. Lights played off of a light green jersey with yellow letters and numbers, the light green helmet with a yellow saw logo on the side. Cheboygan, wearing the Sklorno version of the same uniform, ran downfield ten yards, then angled for the deep middle on a post pattern. She drew double coverage, opening up the shallow middle on a crossing route. Quentin watched the ball sail through the air, hitting receiver Manzhouli fifteen yards downfield and almost directly over center. She bobbled it, reached up for it, then flew backward as a white-and-turquoise-clad Archangel defensive back put a shoulder pad in her chest.

Manzhouli fell hard, skidded, but didn’t get up. The game ground to a halt as a medsled slid out of the tunnel and moved toward the prone player. Quentin checked the roster — the player who delivered the hit was number 72, a defensive tackle’s number. Tim Crawford. Quentin watched the replay, saw that Crawford had dropped off the line into coverage and closed quickly.

“Coach, did you see that?”

“Of course,” Hokor said. “Crawford is on my list of players that we want. That Mathara quarterback is throwing too high, exposing his receivers to damage. Sklorno just aren’t durable enough. This is the title game, and this is the third receiver the Manglers have lost.

“That’s why I want Cheboygan, Coach. You see my point?”

Hokor’s pedipalps twitched, his three sets of antennae circled. “Barnes, most quarterbacks go for pure speed and catching ability.”

“I’m not most quarterbacks. I want a team that can take a punch in the mouth and keep on coming.”

The medsled hovered over Manzhouli, lowered thousands of nano-fiber filaments that wrapped around her, lifted her without adjusting her position. The sled slid off the field, taking her to the locker-room tunnel. Quentin watched the Mathara sidelines. He expected a Sklorno to run out and replace Manzhouli, but instead, a Quyth Warrior trotted onto the field.

A light-green uniformed Quyth Warrior the likes of which Quentin had never seen. Six foot three or so, probably three hundred sixty pounds, this Warrior’s legs and middle arms looked the same as those of any member of his caste. His pedipalps, however, were long — so long they could touch the ground while he was standing straight upright.

John started laughing and slapping his thigh. Half-chewed chili fries shot out of his mouth to land on the luxury box counter. “Lookit the ‘palps on that one! What a little mutie!”
IXNAY ON THE DNA
scrolled across his face.

Hokor made a noise Quentin had never heard, kind a halfspit, half-cough. “Disgusting,” the coach said. “That abomination shouldn’t be allowed to live, let alone allowed to play.”

Quentin called up his own palm-up display, scanning through the Manglers roster until he found the Warrior. He was the sixth receiver on the depth chart — Tara the Freak.

The Manglers broke the huddle and lined up. Quentin felt a buzzing inside his chest, the feeling that he was about to discover something before anyone else did. Tara lined up in the slot, about three yards to the right of the offensive line. A Sklorno wide receiver lined up outside of him, almost to the sidelines.

“Coach?” Quentin said. “What do you mean,
abomination
?”

“Just look at those pedipalps,” Hokor said. “Tara is
imperfect
. He is a mutant. He should be eliminated. Why his
Shamakath
allows him to live is beyond me.”

Quentin had never heard a Quyth Leader talk so hatefully about his own kind before.

The ball snapped, the Manglers quarterback dropped back. Cheboygan again sprinted downfield on a post pattern, her big body again drawing double coverage.

Instead of running, Tara turned sideways, tucked into a ball and
rolled
 — the Quyth Warrior’s strange form of sprinting. At ten yards downfield, he popped out of the roll only long enough to change direction, tucking again before rolling left on a crossing pattern.

Tim Crawford, the Archangels defensive tackle that had knocked Manzhouli out of the game, again dropped back into short coverage. Tara popped out of the roll and looked back for the ball. Another poorly thrown pass, the ball
again
several feet too high. Tara’s mutant pedipalps reached up for the catch — the big blur of turquoise and white slammed into Tara’s exposed midsection, bending the Quyth Warrior in half.

The world-class collision drew an
ohhhh
from the crowd. Quentin watched the two players hit the ground. Watched, and saw that Tara had come down with the ball.

A hit like
that
, and he made the catch?

“Coach,” Quentin said.

“No,” Hokor said.

Tim Crawford was slow to stand. Tara, on the other hand, popped right up. A hit that might have killed a Sklorno, and Tara sprang up as if he’d done nothing more hurtful than trip over a shoelace onto a big feather pillow.

“
Coach
,” Quentin said.

“Absolutely
not
,” Hokor said.

“But Coach, he—”

“
No
! I will not have that ... that ...
freak
wearing a Krakens uniform, and that is final!”

Quentin looked at the diminutive Quyth Leader and tried not to laugh. Hokor’s black-striped yellow fur had puffed up, making him look all soft and fuzzy. Such a display might make Hokor look frightening to a Quyth Warrior, but to a Human, it just made him look cute.

“Whatever you say, Coach. Just take it easy, okay? You want one of John’s chili fries?”

John helpfully reached out a fry covered in glistening, wet-brown chili and melted cheese.

Hokor looked at it, then shivered. “Humans. The things you will eat.”

Hokor’s fur slowly lowered back to its normal, silky-flat state. Quentin didn’t need to rock the boat at the moment, but he’d seen something that he couldn’t
un
-see. The Krakens needed toughness, durability — if that’s what a mutant freak provided, then that’s what the Krakens would sign.

WITH THE TIER THREE TOURNAMENT COMPLETE
, Quentin, John and Hokor returned to Ionath on Quentin’s yacht, the
Hypatia
. Before leaving Wilson 6, however, Quentin had caught another Trench Warfare concert with John. After the concert, Quentin had said goodbye to Somalia. Her last kiss had been amazing. The way she pressed her body up against his, the things she had whispered in his ear.

It had been a long cruise home. Plenty of time to review holos of the various prospects they’d targeted. John had his heart set on landing a defensive end named Rich Palmer, who played for the Venus Vultures. Quentin hadn’t seen the man play. He’d been busy watching other games and focusing on offensive players.

Quentin wanted two players in particular. Getting his way would require some of that poker face that Frederico didn’t seem to think Quentin possessed.

Quentin did. And he would use it now. Sitting in Hokor’s office on the
Touchback
’s 18th deck, he talked with Hokor, Gredok the Splithead, Messal the Efficient and Don Pine. This was their final meeting before Gredok went out to try and sign new rookies, before he engaged in bidding wars, negotiations or any other nefarious tactics required to bolster the Krakens’ ranks. The
Touchback
was mostly empty — it was the off-season, and players were either down on the planet or off in their home systems. Aside from Q, just the sentients who would decide the future of the Ionath Krakens’ roster and a skeleton crew helping Captain Kate Cheevers maintain the ship.